


It’s like red (but not quite)

by Boudoir_Writer



Series: (Pink) It was love at first sight [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy Hargrove Is an Asshole, Billy is obsessed, Drunkness, Enemies, Light Dom/sub, Lipstick, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Come Eating, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Negotiated Kink, Non-consensual crossdressing, Not as serious as the tags suggest, Or Is he?, Panties, Revenge, Threats of blackmail, Unreliable Narrator, bunch of non-consent as one character is passed out, king steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:35:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26632222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boudoir_Writer/pseuds/Boudoir_Writer
Summary: He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. But shouldn’t never stopped him before. And Harrington has had it coming - for weeks now. Oh, yes.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: (Pink) It was love at first sight [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1937479
Comments: 14
Kudos: 129





	It’s like red (but not quite)

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve got a bunch of one-shots I need to get post and be done with it so I can move on to new things...
> 
> This is going to be a series. Got another part written and one more I’m thinking about.
> 
> I tagged this as non-con to be safe BUT. You’ll see. Check the notes at the end for triggers etc and if I missed any do let me know.
> 
> Unfortunately unbeated - let me know if I need to fix anything. 
> 
> Title: Pink, Aerosmith

There’s a buzz, a thrum, a thud thud thud and Billy can’t tell if it’s the shitty music downstairs or his own heart. Must be his heart, because when he closes the door behind him it makes no difference.

And it’s no wonder, given the sight that greeted him when he stumbled into the room.

Billy leans back against the door, rubs at his eyes, finds comfort in the familiar sting of cheap mascara and sweat.

Nope, he’s drunk but not  _ that _ drunk. He’s not imagining things, not like he has been doing since he first landed eyes on King Steve: Harrington is indeed passed out on Tara’s bed, mouth slightly open, one hand curled next to his cheek.

Billy sucks on his teeth, considers.

“Harrington,” he barks out, loud and mean to his own ears.

Nothing. Harrington’s doesn’t even stir. Billy takes a couple of steps towards the bed, pokes at a bony ankle peeking out of the hem of Harrington’s perfectly pressed chinos. Still a big fat nothing.

Maybe the  _ King  _ is dead. Long live the king.

With a snort, Billy gets on the bed, the wannabe silk coverlet slippery under his knees. He straddles Harrington, peers down to stare at his soft face.

His hand finds it way under the stupid pink striped polo - almost the same shade as the coverlet. Christ, trust Harrington to show up at a party dress like a fag.

There’s a steady beat of Harrington’s heart under Billy’s palm, the tickle of chest hair, the mound of his pec, the ridge of a nipple.

It perks up under the brush of his fingers and Billy has to fight the urge to rub, to pinch.

This close he can smell strawberries and vodka, can feel Harrington’s sweet sour breath tickle his face. Puff puff puff.

He should leave. Before Harrington wakes up, before Billy does something he’ll regret.

But he’s here, he’s  _ here _ and he wants. Besides, he’s never been one for regrets.

His eyes land on the brand new Polaroid on the bedside table. Tara’s birthday gift.

Next thing Billy knows it’s in his hands.

The fiddles with it, debates with himself, shrugs.

Then points it at Harrington face and snaps.

There’s a flash, then the loud clacking and whirring of the machine.

Again, Harrington doesn’t even stir and then there it is, proof that Billy is not dreaming, emerging from the dark film as a mythical creature from murky waters.

He stares at Harrington, still passed out, stares at the picture in his hand.

He licks his lips. Oh, the possibilities. Billy can’t suppress a drunken giggle. Not that he’d ever admit it.

He shouldn’t. He  _ really _ shouldn’t. But shouldn’t never stopped him before. And Harrington has had it coming - for weeks now. Oh,  _ yes _ . Billy has been trying to teach him some respect but boy, King Steve’s so fucking  _ thick _ .

He itches Harrington’s shirt up, flat stomach on display, pale skin dotted with moles.

The cool air of the room is enough for Harrington’s nipples to perk up, his happy trail glistens in the low light. Billy bites back a groan, the need to dip his tongue into Harrington’s navel. Instead he gets Harrington in focus, shoots.

Now what. Can’t let the opportunity go to waste, can he?

He gets off the bed, off Harrington and looks around the room for inspiration. He finds it, cheap, frilly and pink among Tara’s panties.

He looks at Harrington, chews on his lip, considers.

It’s not going to be easy,  _ but _ . Billy never cared for easy.

He takes off Harrington’s trainers first. Then his socks, careful not to tickle.

Unbuttons the stupid chinos, peels them off oh so slowly.

He gets stuck at the swell of Harrington’s ass. This is it, he thinks. This is when he’ll wake up. But Harrington just scrunches up his brow, gives a little snuffle and goes limp again. It’s like unwrapping a Christmas present and he hasn’t had one of those since his mum left. Harrington’s legs go on for fucking ever. Then it’s just dark cotton brief and pale, the baby soft skin of Harrington’s thighs.

Billy takes a moment to breathe and stare. He’s seen Harrington in various states of undress in the locker room but never like this. Never this vulnerable. Never for  _ him _ .

He snaps another picture, tongue between his teeth as he presses his eye to the viewfinder.

Time to tackle the briefs. Easier than the chinos, but he doesn’t throw them on the floor, no. He folds them neatly and tucks them in the back pocket of his jeans. Little souvenir. He’s that greedy. So? Sue him. 

Harrington’s dick, even soft, warrants another picture. Click, whirr. Billy bites the inside of his cheek against the urge to touch, to taste. His hands shake with need.

Instead he grabs the cheap see-through panties he selected from Tara’s gaudy collection and slowly, almost reverently, slides them up Harrington’s long long legs.

For a moment, he believes they’ll rip as he pulls them over the swell of Harrignton’s ass. The flimsy material strains but somehow holds, as if desperate to cling to those lovely cheeks. Billy can relate.

Still, he keeps his touching to a minimum and keeps his fingers off Harrington’s dick. He’s not sure he’d be able to control himself, so it ends up peeking out of seethrough lace.

Well, by the size of it wouldn’t fit anyway. Harrington’s is hung like a horse and the tiny panties only make it more obvious, more obscene.

The lace scratching at Harrington’s dick must do something because it starts chubbing up a little. Billy watches, barely breathing, faintly aware his tongue is lolling out of his mouth, as if it could taste Harrington in the  _ air. _

He watches Harrington’s face carefully but it stays just as blank, just as soft, just as vulnerable.

Fuck.  _ Fuck _ .

Plan was to get Harrington in panties and snap a couple humiliating pics. Plan was to maybe throw in a bit of blackmail, watch pretty boy squirm under the threat of showing them around. Plan was not for Harrington to look this fucking hot in pink lace and not much else.

It’s a slippery slope. Where to stop. Where to stop, if not crashing and burning at the very bottom.

Billy’s hands hold the Polaroid so tight that it creaks as he snaps another couple of pictures.

He tells himself that’s it, it’s done, get out of here, but his dick is rock hard in his jeans, it’s starting to hurt. It’s starting to  _ talk _ to him.

He rubs at his face, tugs at his hair.

All right all right all fucking  _ right _ . In for a penny -

He rummages through the make up scattered on the dresser. Finds a tube of lipstick that matches the panties and the polo, so he sets the Polaroid within reach on the bed, crawls back on top of Harrington and gets to work.

It’s hard to paint Harrington’s lips, so soft and unresponsive and Billy tries to tell himself that it doesn’t matter if Harrington ends up looking like a clown, lipstick all over his face, but it  _ does _ . He got this far, he doesn’t want to ruin his hard work now.

A smear at the side of that mouth and he curses under his breath, thumb moving to rub at it before he can think. Harrington stirs under his touch and Billy freezes, watching, waiting, heart beating out of his chest, pulsing in his hard dick. 

And then Harrington’s tongue darts out to lick at his lips and finds the pad of Billy’s finger instead. Billy holds very very still as Harrington’s lap at his thumb, mumbles something, settles with a snort. It physically hurts to remove his hand instead of pushing his fingers into Harrington’s mouth, pressing down on that tongue, making him  _ gag _ .

Billy soothes the sting with another picture. He’s almost out of film and he needs to make the last of it count.

A moment of hesitation then, fuck it, it’s time to reward himself for a job well done. He zips his jeans open, pulls out his cock, it’s practically weeping with need - it doesn’t take long, it doesn’t take long at all.

Thighs spread and straining he straddles Harrington’s slim hips and jack off to his slack face and painted mouth, to his lace trapped dick.

He comes all over Harrington’s stomach, biting into his fist hard enough he bleeds. Takes in the mess he made, dips a finger into Harrington’s navel, catches the come that has pooled there. On a whim he smears it on Harrington’s bottom lip, adds some shine to the pink. Then he waits, Polaroid in hand. Harrington frowns in his sleep, his tongue to come out to dab at the slick.

Billy is ready.

_ Click. _

-

Come Monday, Billy regrets not being there to snap a picture at Harrington’s face when he woke up. He finds some consolation in knowing that he can look at Harrington’s face when he’ll see the pictures. Because Billy will show them to him. And then maybe threaten to show them around. Unless.

He bets he can get Harrington to beg. I’ll do anything, he’ll say. And, well, Billy has an idea or two. Just to start. Both feature Harrington on his knees, because that’s his place, as far as Billy is concerned.

He’s so busy thinking about Harrington on his knees, face flushed in anger and humiliation that he almost doesn’t notice when the real thing slides into the seat in front of him. Almost.

He hasn’t spared a look at Billy in what feels like forever, but that’s nothing new.

And it doesn’t matter. He  _ will _ look at Billy. Soon.

Billy instead stares and stares and stares some more as Mrs Click drones on and on and on. He stares until Harrington drops a pen and bends down to retrieve it.

His polo, pastel yellow today, rides up and that’s when Billy sees it. Pink lace peeking out of his chinos. Same pink lace. Billy would know. He has been looking at the pics all weekend, he’s got the pattern burned into his fucking  _ retinas _ .

Billy chokes on his own spit, and Harrington turns around to watch him cough a lung into his fist.

“You okay, man?” He sounds saccharine sweet, all seriousness and concern, but those lashes flutter and his cocksucker lips bend into a knowing smirk and, Jesus, is Billy seeing things or there’s a light sheen to them? “Heard you bit off more than you could chew at Tara’s.”

Harrington, the cheeky bastard, swivels into his seat and goes back to ignoring him and Billy is left with a raging hard on and a next move to plot.

**Author's Note:**

> One day I’m going to write sweet, meek Steve bullied by asshole Billy. Today is not that day. Long live the King.
> 
> Warning:  
> Derogatory language.  
> Billy does a bunch of things under the assumption that Steve is passed out. So total non-con there.


End file.
